


Deadly Desires

by ajattra



Category: Demon's Souls
Genre: Angst, Dark fic, F/M, One-Shot, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-19
Updated: 2012-07-19
Packaged: 2017-11-10 07:23:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/463700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ajattra/pseuds/ajattra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a world overrun by evil, you fight it with another kind of evil. The Wanderer finds himself drawn to the Maiden in Black and her offerings. And they are truly two unlikely kindred spirits. Maiden/Wanderer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Deadly Desires

The Wanderer slays the demons, strengthened by their souls, and uncovers the Sacred Arts, becoming corrupted by their temptation.

The Maiden stands in the Nexus, waiting. She is chained to darkness, chained to order, yet she desires something more than just existence.

He journeys through ravaged land, embraced by souls, his thirst growing. The decay should destroy the faith of a lesser man, should bring him at desperation’s doorstep, reduced to a weeping, creeping boy. But he does not despair. Others join him in the Nexus, their presence mocking the rule of demons and their perverted dynasty standing in the ruins of the old Boletaria.

The Wanderer has felt her touch once, felt it rejuvenate him; fill him until he felt like he would burst. In normal circumstances he would not enter such a world, not partake in such company, but he is slowly entranced by her, walking barefoot across the Nexus, silently searching for him.

She asks him to touch the demon within her, her voice ripe with lust for souls, for him. He can feel the oscillation within her, how it makes her fingers tremble, pale and cold, brushing his neck as he kneels before her. And that voice beckons him again; it is such a pleasant thing amidst this darkness, this decay and death. Robust, he stands as the deed is done, his body buzzing with energy, his rejuvenation complete.

He comes to her many times after this, to see her bereft at his absence, a small sense of joy emerging in her with his return. He walks like a shadow in the long corridors of the Boletarian Palace, dodging assassins and dragon fire, looting souls and equipment from the dead. He has died many times already, struck down by unnatural enemies, stalking creatures, humans reduced to walking zombies. But when he returns with success, carrying in him yet another demon’s soul, her elation is palpable. She is enlivened by his victory, his small frame always appearing into view as he steps through the arch stone.

He is the Wanderer, a man without a home, his life but a quest after another, one desolate place leading to another. Ostrava often entertains him with tales of Boletaria before its descent to hell. He says it was Paradise on earth, a country beautiful and peaceful. The Wanderer knows though, knows that he would’ve not been drawn to such a land. It was the fire and ash, blood and corpses, tales of infinite horrors that drew him here, to sate the bloodlust in him. It was the demons, these fierce champions of the mad King Allant, which whisper to him, challenging him endlessly. The Wanderer lives for battle, for a steel dawn.

And yet the cacophony of the broken world gets to him sometimes as well. He retreats from the rest at such times, confining himself in the upper floors, where there are no rescued allies, no Monumental with a childlike voice. He opens the dolorous skein of horror inside him slowly, working to mitigate the pain of what he has seen. Burning infants, defiled women, monsters that tear men apart, the screaming of the innocent, the feel of dragon fire reaching at one’s back – such are his nightmares.

 The Maiden comes to him when he is like this, glad of her blindness to such things, her ability to percolate emotion and sensation, to remain unmoved. She walks to him barefoot, her dark hair rustling as she walks. And she finds him, as this hero is the center of her universe, the adversary of the Old One. She is inexplicitly drawn to him in these cavernous halls, drawn to the feel of his weather beaten skin on hers when he touches her. For something ancient like her, someone born to watch the world fester and spoil, his pain gives her quest and life meaning.

Together they wait for the storm to pass, the meandering cries to die in his ears. Her presence helps strangely enough. Her serene expression, that single-minded focus on him, he knows he should be above these things, a creature of violence like him. But there are parts him left soft yet, parts that are vulnerable and require shields. The Maiden finds his disquiet worrisome, and she sits nearby, guarding him in his distraught state, a fact he finds most curious.

The others speak of her like a plague, calling her a demon as well, a cunning and wise one, merely enslaved by the Monumental. They shun her, whisper obscenities to her back, and become pale when she walks by. The Maiden pays little heed to them though. They are insects, meaningless and incomprehensible. The Wanderer draws her to him though; he alone holds her interest, stirs her small body.

Hitherto they have circled one another, a slow burn dance of encounter and touch, retreat and return. She augments him at his request, for a price. And he lays his hands on her thighs as she sits by the stairs, her dress fallen from her pale skin. Beneath the softness lies a heartbeat, blood pumping in her veins. Her eyeless head looks at him, mouth slightly ajar, waiting to welcome him to her. The desire is shared; it is burning their flesh, a yearning born from a strange reliance, a symbiosis.

Something about this moment reads as almost romantic. The candlelight flutters with the soft draught, the voices of others have diminished a long time ago. The Maiden has spread her legs; her dress has climbed to her highs. He is kneeled between them, gazing up at her face, wondering if she can see him somehow. His eyes follow the shape of the scars on her face, and then stop at her collar, lingering for a moment before they fall down her chest and the small peaks of her breasts. Lust clutches his insides, makes his worn and dirty trousers feel tight.

Her lips are moist, her breath controlled, but not enough. He can tell it’s on the verge of becoming hitched. His fingers press onto her bare thighs, friction forms between his thumbs and her skin as he brushes them gently. She tenses and relaxes again, leaning forward just a bit. Perhaps he feels a little sorry for her as well, trapped here for all eternity, hated and feared by lost souls, abhorred by the Monumental. His eyes devour her slender frame more, and he looks up at her, feels her hands land on his shoulders. It feels quite intimate even with both of them dressed and unable to share eye contact.   




“Can you see me?” The Wanderer asks, worrying little about upsetting her. He knows she sees many things with her heart, probably inside realms human eyes cannot see.

“I see thee and only thee,” she responds with a raspy voice, melodic as always. No one else hears this voice but him; no one else holds her interest.

He inches closer, feels her push out a heavier breath, overwhelmed by sensation. He runs his calloused hands across her thighs, pushes her dress upwards a little more, and she sighs sinfully, accepting everything. Her calmness is assuring, her responsiveness more than he expected. And while they have done this a dozen times already, her touch feels as good as it did on that first time.

The Wanderer braces himself, creeping closer to her.

_Soul of the lost_ , she says, caressing his neck with her hands. He shivers unwittingly, wanting to close his eyes, to be lost in this moment.

_Withdrawn from its vessel_ , she continues, leaning forward even more. Her lips graze his forehead, her scent fills his nostrils. It is strange, full and brisk, yet pleasant. He can see her nipples through her dress, hardening in response to his presence.

_Let strength be granted so the world might be mended_ , she recites, nearly losing her focus as he pushes her dress upward again, leaves it at the joints of her legs, leaving her exposed. Her stature betrays her pleasure; its scent is sharp now, clear to them both.

_Touch the demon inside me_ , she beckons him weakly, entranced by his very being.

The Wanderer is overcome by lust, driven to madness by this creature. He pushes her down the stairs, pushes his trousers down enough to release his arousal from their bind. She lays her head on the stone, anxiously waiting for him. Only his breathing makes sound now, as he descends on her, finding her lips with his, claiming them forcefully his. Her sighs are lost in his kisses, his worship. In a ruined land, she is the most beautiful thing he has seen.

He tears the front of her dress open, eager hand clasping around one small breast. He rubs it, kneads it, sucks its tip slowly, and repeats the action with the other breast. Her cries of joy are muffled to avoid attention. Her back arches into him, tensions builds into the joint of her legs, becoming a maddening violent pulsating beat that drives her towards release. His lips find hers again, and he pushes her firmly against the stairs, never minding the discomfort.

“What do you want?” he whispers hoarsely into her ear, licking and biting at her earlobe, his arousal pressing at her stomach, only furthering the desire that binds her.

“Only what thou wisheth,” she tells him breathlessly. “I serve thee.”

His mouth moves to her neck, his teeth biting at it to her delight. Now her hands grab his shoulders, nails sinking into his skin, blood trickling through the wounds. They brace for contact, and he pushes into her, finding her receptive at his affection, wet and eager. Her grip tightens, her exhales become quick and mark his pace as he moves in and out of her, motion blurring into a single uninterrupted continuum. The beat is violent and quick, discomfort gathered at her pelvis, bruised by the force of his entry. The Maiden pays little heed though, her senses are overwhelmed.

The Wanderer presses against her, sweat wetting his shirt. Her exposed front rubs into him as they move, it teases his skin, teases him. But his release is coming, the souls are flowing from him to her, and her muffled moans are music to his ears. He craves more: more souls, more flesh, more of this, more of everything. Her presence is bemusing, it is perfection.

His rhythm becomes incomprehensible until it stops all together. Sated, he lets himself fall, letting go of the souls, allowing his weary body to have its rest. She remains beneath him, content with the feel of him locked between her legs, the two of them entwined. He kisses the side of her mouth, watches her exhausted breathing even. And then he stares at her face, sweat dripping down on her from his body. She lays there exposed, still visibly aroused, yet unable to move. The Maiden looks completely vulnerable, nothing more than a girl.

_Soul of the mind, key to life’s ether_ , she whispers and then suddenly feels him pull out of her, feels less somehow. But his withdrawal is followed by another action, as fierce and unexpected as his retreat; she feels his fingers push inside her, begin to caress her; And then his mouth on her breast again, sucking violently, sharply, but so pleasurably. 

He moves his fingers inside her finding that swollen spot against her inner walls that craves for his touch. He works on it tirelessly, rubbing her moist petals with his thumb, until she is drunk from his affections. Her hands are around his head, sunken in his hair. He watches he writhe with a sly smile, taking pleasure in the sight of her satisfaction.

_Let thine strength_ -, she moans, her face becoming more and more bothered, that pulsating feeling between her legs almost out of control now. _Be granted_ , she continues bravely, trying to hold onto the power at her fingertips, when in reality she is made helpless in his affection.

He bites at her nipple, sending her overboard, flooding her senses with pleasure. She trembles visibly, her back arched, her inner walls clasping around his fingers. And then she gives in, and lets her surrender wash through her.

“So the world might be mended,” he says, feeling the new power in his fingertips transferring from her. He feels strengthened anew.

They simply lay there for awhile, forgotten by the world, by the demons, by whatever god there is. Man and woman, human and demon, both sated and dizzy.

He never wants this to end, never wants to world to mend. Together, they could live forever.

 -fin

**Author's Note:**

> I have no words. Apparently I can write smut out of literally anything. But, well, after 80+ hours of listening to her voice beckoning to "Touch the demon inside her" I just kind of sat down and wrote this.


End file.
